The Conscientious Observer

"I never asked You to save me and take back my life, Lion of Judah, fortified in light. Tell me how You'll guide me now, in all of my spite."

I'm fucked up.

The Notebook: An ode to Mekdes Bogale Odes hardly tell the entire story but they show the glimpses of things that matter most. Who would have thought that the mere notebook you gave could be one that contains words that grieve your loss? I never knew what the taste of true coffee was before I met you at a coffee shop below the family business you were running. My frontal lobe remembers it like it was yesterday, my taste buds too, but lest they do, I use the same tongue that houses them to remind them that I promised to pay you another visit, so I could consolidate what I forgot. The grim truth came to take you, before you even deserved, but I will let it be known on your behalf, that you have loved and searched for ways to be holy and reasons to be kind. You were humble, and if that word didn't exist you still would be defined by that as nothing else could concisely explain what you were. In a world I know for slandering me for merely existing, you chose the noble act of showing what your heart bled out for and sharing all of your glow. I'm mourning your death, but I will soon learn to celebrate your life. A life whose story is hardly told by a simple ode, but a life whose light shines beyond the straight line of passing. Yes, I am mourning your death at the time of writing but I'll make sure I honor your life with the same notebook your crafty hands selflessly gave me. May you rest in power, May you rest in paradise, May you rest in peace. Love, Kaleb ❤️

We're all gonna make it.

The Golden Fleece Coffee on the table flowing thoroughly on a stomach free after months of endless vomit. Coughing up intermittently to the point water becomes the best alternative. Sip, sip, sip and then sip some more. Stimulated with the thoughts of inevitable salvation. Coffee on the table, a cup half full, slowly emptied to the point it looks washed. Vomit on the bathroom sink, all flushed away, nowhere to be seen, as I don't see it returning anytime soon. Barely coughing up, no longer needing codeine, nonexistent its presence seems. Realize how much I've missed you, when I see my dry notifications, and your name card won't appear. I long for you hard, I crave you to the fullest, I was foolish to have believed you were obsolete, all while you're the constant reminder of everything I need, on these ongoing breathless and tiresome times. You can interrupt me, but I'll speak over you anyways. And if not, I'll speak to myself. I loved the day you first crossed my mind, I yearn and pray your golden wings carry me along their flight. You're my everything, regardless of what you'll bring. But you'll delay your bravado, to drive up my heart rate, a heart rate, raised in spite of the knowledge that you're too good to be true. I still want you, though, because at this point, your availability is tight-nit with a life I dream of getting hold of. I'll allow you to break every section of my heart, in exchange for a little bit of hope, and I will love you even further for it, You're the angelic presence, sent by its Master, to look over me as I sleep. You're the sunshine straight from the pearly gates claimed to be the smile of saints. You're the breath of life, known to turn soil to man, in a fraction of a second. And more than anything, I need you, for the mere fact that you're nothing but a golden ball of wool. You refresh me to the core of of every fiber within my soul. Damn, all these thoughts just stemmed, from envisioning your name card on my screen. "The Golden Fleece" it spells out, reminiscent of the day your discovery frightened all the pestilence ruining my life. May the 7th, 2022, to be exact. My memories remain intact, and that could serve me well, as I think of all that would be, if I laid my hands on you.

Tale of Wine A response Rinse repeatedly just to fall back into the same filth. I believe everything sweet eventually turns sour, and time will tell whether that's a bad thing or a good one. I've been hearing voices telling me that giving up is the one true god. I've been hearing that they want me to join their troop, and if I can be true, they must be a bunch of raggedy fools. Yes. I've lived through grief, but learned to lift the steel-like weight it imposed upon me. And that gives me enough energy to pray for my mother's well-being, and any opposing outcome will be diluted with two words, Amor fati. I live in hope. But regardless, I live a broken man. I've heard stories about a man losing everything, just to get it back in seven folds. I've seen the closure of doors, ones I'd been longing to enter, allow for the opening of better rooms. Indeed, I recite Psalms 91 like it's my last. I can sense your voices turn into dust, just so the devil you placed your faith upon, gets anxiety-induced diarrhea soon as the chapter opens... So much for the horrors of public bathrooms I cried genuine tears recently. I cried all night, just to wake up in the morning with a glaringly obvious smile. I acknowledge my suffering, I yearn to find solace from it, yet I don't cry for salvation for long as it'll be heard on the next bus stop. Suicide never had the upper hand, SO HOW THE HELL WOULD IT BE MY GOD? Why lick my wounds when I can learn to heal them? Why do something else when satiety is provided to even the birds in sky with the most minimal of worries? And the beloved, the one you thought you'd snatch near my premise, never existed in the first place. I've seen numerous imposters masquerade themselves as her, and utterly demolish their fate. While I? Well I... still survive, and at times, I thrive. I've seen the darkest of the world, at the closure of my eyes. Masked men in gray suits, driven by an oligarch with megalomaniac, vacticidal tendencies have bloody well tested me, but there's always been a force field strong enough to serve as a shield. They call it grace. It covers the entirety of my face, something I assume to which you bastard voices cannot relate. No, I will not rot, as my soul will eject from my flesh, in a rather schismatic manner, and grief will occur as it does. But thing is, that's the end for everyone, and we leave the tentative part so we keep on living. In unison, we pray, In unison, we scream, In unison, we cry, In unison, we sing. That as imminent death may be, it will not be today, and if it is, it won't take us away beyond the ugly fate of this futile world, that God himself would one day skin alive. And knowing that is not enough to scare me to the point of sleep deprivation. Yes, one of us will pull the trigger, but I drop my gun turn my back and give you the chance to pull the index finger you've used to try and guide me to an end so bitter. I do this as I know you got no balls to shoot, I can spot a coward from a mile, and that coward ain't me, IT'S YOU! These words are enough to cripple you. I pick my gun, turn around, and aim, straight to your head, and not your chest as I know you live no with no heart. But I never needed to shoot, as my words were enough to cripple you, and return you to your deserved place. Good riddance, but not for long? Hopefully not, God only knows.

"Monolog" by Spectre Sickness will be your only companion on this journey. You'll starve under empty skies As famished rats excoriate what's left Of your fragile vessel. Grief will outweigh the steel shovel you'll use To bury your mother. A carmine mixture of tear and blood will defile the soil under which she rests. "Quick", I'll warn you before dawn, "Cover the wounds across your arms Before her soul steals a final glimspe of us As it soars above our beings." You will carve the entirety of Psalms Upon your ragged skin With a knife As the devil recites them for you in a public bathroom. Sorrow will summon its reckless henchmen to stitch your longitudal rupture. Worms will make a viable nest from the corpse of your only offspring. Suicide will be your God, and to him will you crawl with a blindfold over your eyes. You will lick the steam off of your singular window to satiate your thirst. Be wary of the irregular cracks upon its surface, For we can no longer heal from our cuts and contusions. Your beloved will leave you for a less suicidal poet. As you cry for salvation, the leaves around you  Will still themselves and listen. No one else will. Strange souls in black will pray for you as you convulse by the city burials. Oh, and our muse? She is being taken to the gallows as we speak, Dragging a colossal crucifix across a barren town, Messiah of a lost God behind her with a hammer And four rusted nails. Winds will soon halt their movements across the tides of reason. Masked men in gray suits  Will eviscerate you as you beg for a modicum of clemency And shove your remains into a polished briefcase. You will die and you will not, But you will surely rot. In solitude will you find peace. In solitude will you find us. In solitude will you find chaos. In solitude will you kiss the hands of death. As you wave both hands around you, The flies will not disperse. They will linger and wait for you To collapse. You will spend a handful of sleepless nights on a cheap motel bed With a cold revolver shoved in your mouth The six chambers all loaded save for one Either me, or you, Have to pull the trigger. May we rest in peace thereafter.

Six hundred and sixty jinxes Shallow proceedings hollow fronts silence transmitted by state-of-the-art holophones. Rinse, repeat, maintain the routine and fall short from achieving any bit of growth. Do the same things, over and over again until a broken shell of the man you once were becomes your one and only end product. Indeed, I'm a broken man whose limbs function like no other. Yes, all four of them! And the more I look at these things, the more that I notice, I'm reminded of the four horsemen of the apocalypse as though they were two pairs of identical twins. Both my legs walk so each step leads to a path of destruction. My arms fail to handle any utensil that is of some utility, while punching a hole through the wall of a house they built in the middle of the wilderness whenever they face any minor inconvenience. These goddamn limbs are a constant reminder that I mean nothing, and if I was to mean something, anything, it'd be that I am a monumental mistake, a ticking time bomb and an accident waiting to happen. An accident whose losses are pending, naively raving about a change, yet still unable to evade the fate of all in the world that is damned. The reflection at the puddle nearby tells me that I have the knack of attracting the snide. Reality also catches up to tell me that I am swallowed by eternity, digested by the past and vomited by the future for generations to last. Tensions build up, defeat seems closer than ever the rope, the slope, the gun, the sun, and the razor suddenly develop lingual abilities, stressing on my toes and fingers to finally accept the grim truth that lingers, saying that now is the time to pull the trigger, and put an end to this prolonged and drawn-out theater. All this happens before I eventually move my neck and look up towards the painting, placed just above the dented parted of the wall, one of the Last Supper. With this, all else begins to fade and this tension slows down before it withers away and the Dark Rose eventually takes it with her. That's when I remember that Christ is truly king, and I end up reciting my daily prayer alongside the Nicene Creed.

A Divine Dance in an Inferno Twitch, twitch, twitching motions of eyes, hardly ever asleep, seeing animated beings from clothes hanging by the sheets. ቀን ሙሉ አርፎ በነቃ የሌት አርግብግቢት በተመሰለ ዓይን ላይ የሰፈረ አዙሪት ይባስ ናላ ሲያዞር እንደ ልጅ እሽክርክሪት፣ በቀን የደከመ ስጋ ሌት ሙሉ ሳይተኛ፣ በዓለም ለራደ ነፍስ ሆኖለት ዘበኛ ጠብቆት ሲጨርስ በዓይኖቹ ቁራኛ፣ በንጋት ተረሳ ሊታወስ ዳግመኛ፣ ለበላው ውለታን በራቀ ወረተኛ። It's close than ever. My prayers, stronger than ever, well, better than never, but my sins however, continue to linger, and so allow it to keep on lurking, getting ever so closer. Fear resides, eats me alive, yet I try and try and try to defy and refine my calmness and so I lift my neck and shout, "In my Father's name, I tell you to leave. I shall not plead And I shall not beg no one else, As I shall not want as well. You classless vermin, you toxic rodent, I'm familiar with your plots, cognizant of the slots and the trenches you've slammed as home for your wretched and treasonous plans. I know your game, I know your aims. I know what you do as well as the moments you choose. I know how you paint me as the goblin, the monster, and the coward, whose courage he's unable to muster. And when you fail to vilify me, you then sanctify my enemy. But I won't let you do it, I won't give you my ears, I won't give in to my fears you induced in hopes you suckle on the teats that produce my tears. ከአጠገቤ ሺህ፣ ከቀኜ አስር ሺህ የሚያወድቅ፣ ካንተ ክፋትና ሸር፣ በእጥፎች ለሚልቅ ኃይል ተማጽኜ፣ ከበራፌ እንድትርቅ፣ አዘዝኩህ በድምጼ፣ ከእግሬ ፊት እንድትደቅ።

A friendly reminder that there is never a time in human history when an actionless and mindless projection of an individual's emotions brought a substantial change to the human race. Although suppressing your emotions is never the answer , you should not act solely by them. There should also be some space in your brain where you could entertain rationality and introspection, as well as the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom. Godspeed! #friendlyreminder